


Atrophy

by sterlingstars



Category: Fire Emblem: The Sacred Stones
Genre: Drabble, I'm so sorry for this, M/M, Pining, Post-Game, Unrequited Love, lord forgive me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-06
Updated: 2017-08-06
Packaged: 2018-12-12 01:27:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11726646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sterlingstars/pseuds/sterlingstars
Summary: There is, in a way, elegance in finality.Lyon takes a moment to reflect on Ephraim, as he dies by his hand. Love is cruel, but he was crueler. Perhaps he earned this. He wouldn't have it any other way though, honestly.





	Atrophy

**Author's Note:**

> Hey folks, long time no fic- my emo ass got inspired by a bit from a Richard Siken poem and took some time out of my day to hurt myself. I'm sorry for this. These two will end me, probably.

There is, in a way, elegance in finality. 

Lyon returns to his mind, slips back into his own bones, feels the pain of the wounds he’s suffered and nearly blacks out from the sheer force of it. He wills himself to stay conscious, keep his eyes open- he won’t miss this final moment for the world. Each breath is unbearable agony, and it’s delicious. The searing pain of each cut, the heat of the blood running over his skin, between the tears of his tattered clothes, is a reminder of what he is. 

Ephraim stands over him, chest heaving, blood splattered onto his face. His hair is limp and damp with sweat, his armor nicked, covered in blood. His magnificent lance is smeared with gore. His eyes are bright with adrenaline, with battle, but nothing lies behind them, and Lyon knows well enough to know this, at least. He wants terribly to touch him, to wipe the blood from his pale cheek, but he finds he can’t move. All for the better, he supposes, the thought idle and lazy in his hazy, aching head. 

He finally registers that his breaths, so agonizing, are coming out in gasping stutters, broken and uneven. It sounds grating to his own ears, and he can’t imagine what it sounds like to the others. 

There aren’t any words- not any that he can register, at least. There’s faint background noise, and he supposes that will be whatever remains of Ephraim’s forces, gathering themselves after the battle. Cataloging damage, counting the dead, going about the gruesome business of cleaning up after a war. It all begins in this moment. He knows Ephraim will have to take charge of most of it, and the thought spurns a dull ache in his already bleeding, dying heart.

And yet, Ephraim does not move from over him. Lyon blinks, though it’s slow and, much like everything else, painful. Nothing doesn’t hurt. If he could find the power to speak, he would try to soothe Ephraim- he knows he’s waiting for him to die, standing guard over his nearly lifeless body and just waiting for the moment he breathes his last. It’s romantic, if you were to ask Lyon. 

And how strange it might seem, that he wants to comfort the very man who has killed him. That’s his blood on Ephraim’s cheek, remnants of his body smeared on the blade of his lance. Something within Lyon is satisfied with this outcome, though. If it were anyone else, he would be devastated- the only other person allowed this rite, in his opinion, would be Eirika, and even now he thinks dying by her hand might have been more befitting, considering what he’s done to her. She’ll never forgive him; or she shouldn’t, and Lyon hopes, with his last willpower of mind, that she has the mind not to, though he knows her heart is too kind not to. Although… war changes you, shapes the soul, and she’s seen things, he knows, that will harden at some of her soft nature. It’s a terrible fate.

He wants to weep over the both of them. Twin stars in his sky, the light in his world of darkness. The crown jewels of this wretched land. He’s glad that at the least, he got to bask in their light, even if only briefly. He wonders if he’s physically smiling. He wants to, feels it in his heart, but he’s not sure that his body is capable of making such an expression. Perhaps it’s for the best, as he’s sure it would disturb Ephraim to see him wearing that expression in this particular moment. 

He wonders how Ephraim is feeling right now, standing over him like a bloodied, solemn statue. He’s not moved a muscle since Lyon opened his eyes, and he’s beginning to think he’s going to stay that way until Lyon is dead. It works out well enough- he can see his face, and that is enough for him.

Even on the brink of his death, he’s selfish. That is his nature, he supposes. It’s always been this way- Ephraim does what he must, does what he will, and Lyon admires him from his own shadowed corner as everything he touches turns to ash and falls away. It’s always been this way, and even in his final moments, it doesn’t deviate. 

Lyon remembers the first and only time they kissed. They were fifteen, and it was one of the last times they saw each other as friends. It was sloppy, and their teeth clacked together, but it was the best moment of Lyon’s life. They both blushed and stammered, embarrassed that their first kiss wasn’t the sweeping, grandly romantic thing they anticipated it would be, but Lyon had taken Ephraim’s hand, and they’d smiled at each other through their embarrassment and rush of terrible teenage hormones, and it had been, despite everything that went wrong, perfect. He wonders if Ephraim remembers it, and if he thinks of it just as fondly. If nothing else, he at least has this for himself.

He’s loved Ephraim for his entire life. From the moment they first met, he has been a beacon of beauty in his life, a permanent fixture in his heart, just as the sun is in the sky. It’s a privilege to be killed by him, and he knows this. He deserved to be killed by him, and he also knows this. He wishes it had been more intimate, but he understands the circumstances. How often did he dream of losing his last breath to Ephraim’s beautiful hands around his throat? And if that isn’t love, then he doesn’t know what love really is. 

Perhaps he really doesn’t.

His breath is harder to find, now. Everything feels hazy and slow, and he knows he will die within the next few moments. There’s relief to it, in the ending of all of this pain. Knowing that Ephraim and Eirika can move forward with their lives without the burden of him to carry on their backs. Knowing he will never be able to hurt them again. There’s comfort in it. 

He hears Ephraim sigh above him, a heavy sound. It breaks his already shattered heart. One last pain, one last scar to forge on his heart, since Lyon is incapable of ever giving him anything but, it seems. 

Lyon himself wheezes, and it’s a terrible, wretched noise. Ephraim’s eyes are so dark, and he wishes they would be bright again, just for this last moment, though he can’t have everything. Especially not in these circumstances. Maybe in another lifetime he would have the privilege of seeing Ephraim’s smile, unadulterated and unabashed, just for him. In some other world where things are fair and Lyon is not so terrible, maybe he got to have Ephraim in all the ways he ever wanted him. It’s a nice dream, and a good one to carry into his death. 

It takes every ounce of strength left in his dying body, but he gathers the breath and the power to whisper out one, solid word.

“E… Eph-” He can’t finish speaking, blood coming out of his throat. At the least, he’ll give himself the happiness of Ephraim’s name being the last thing he speaks. Even if it’s unfinished.

Ephraim looks at him, brows drawn together. Lyon wants to smooth them out. He wants to touch him one last time, feel the softness of his skin, the rigidness of his muscles. Feel his hands grip him, even if it’s in anger- then, at least, he would be touching him.

“Goodbye, Lyon.” It’s whispered, his voice dry and hard, and this, he knows, is Ephraim’s last gift to him.

“Ah.” He’s incapable of real, speech, but he prays it conveys his thought well enough.

Ephraim blinks. Lyon shudders, breath gasping and stuttering, barely even coming now. His vision is going dark, and sounds are fading. He can hear the drum of his heartbeat, weak and slow, and only getting slower. So this is it, then. At the very least, he has died by his beloved’s hands, with his name on his lips. At the very least, Ephraim is looking at him, eyes unreadable, but his eyes all the same.

He hopes he’s smiling when his vision finally goes black.

**Author's Note:**

> Commentary is always appreciated! If you wanna yell at me in real time, I can be found on twitter at @sterling_stars! Sorry again.


End file.
